It is Not a Story about Religion

If you’ve followed the story of this blog from the beginning, you may notice a paradox: how can a story of conversion not be about religion?

Believe me—it is not. It’s about identity, belonging, and the sacrifices we make to feel accepted. In my case, to win the approval of my in-laws.

Before moving from France to Tel Aviv at twenty-two, I had met them only twice, briefly. My impression was that they were kind, warm, and generous. I didn’t sense any particular religiosity. When they came for a brief visit in France, they chose their food carefully in restaurants and explained that, since they kept kosher—a law my husband did not observe—they wouldn’t have anything with meat, but tuna fish and vegetables were totally acceptable. I didn’t know anything about kosher rules. I asked what else they could eat, and they answered with the one thing they would never have: a cheeseburger, because cheese and meat together was their biggest no-no. Not being a fan of hamburgers, I didn’t think that would be a big miss. But what did I know?

When we decided to relocate to Israel, I was excited and hopeful about this new chapter, leaving behind a law degree I had never truly connected with and an estranged family that had gone too far.

After a warm welcome, and while I believed I was settling well into my new family, I came to understand that I was a problem. Not me per se, but the fact that I was not Jewish. His mother mentioned conversion during a dinner prep. She stated that it was a way to gain not only their acceptance, but Israel’s too—a society where I quickly realized religion and identity were inseparable, and where Jewishness was a regulated status. 

I won’t lie: I didn’t take it very well. It felt like another family I was failing. But this one was kind and loving. I saw how they were with their sons—no fighting, no constant stress, only respect and dialogue. Once I calmed down, I analysed the situation and saw conversion as a second chance at family. So I agreed, without really knowing what I was agreeing to.

I knew the word conversion, of course. But what did it actually mean? I didn’t know—and neither did anyone around me.

My husband, who had never spoken much about religion and had never asked me to convert, strongly objected. He couldn’t understand why I would even consider changing who I was for anyone. Eventually, we compromised: I would give it one year to “try on” Jewishness. How bad could it be to learn a new culture through something religious, right?

Besides, maybe it wouldn’t have to be that religious. His parents never asked whether I believed, and I concluded they didn’t care that I didn’t. In fact, they seemed less afraid of God than of family opinion and social judgment. I entered the process willingly, curious and intrigued. I didn’t think of it as putting my life on hold—only later did I realize how lonely it would become, how much of myself would be spent simply waiting, and that this was not the Israeli life I had imagined upon arrival.

I like to think of the experience as total immersion in a world that was not my own. It’s not something I’d recommend lightly—unless you’re very, very curious.

Of course, I’m not talking about those who convert out of deep faith, for whom this path is essential. That’s a different story.

So no—at its core, this isn’t a story about religion. It’s about the universal hunger for identity, love, and home. My story isn’t unique, but stories like mine often go untold. And they matter. They build empathy. They offer rare glimpses into misunderstood or lesser-known worlds. They remind us that beneath every difference lies the same human desire: to be accepted, loved, and wanted.

Yes, I know—it might sound cliché. You’re probably frowning… or raising one eyebrow in quiet judgment. And that’s okay. ^_^

You might be wondering what kind of conversion this was, how religious I became, whether I believed any of it, how my marriage survived, or if I ever seriously considered running in the opposite direction.

The full answers are in the memoir—some may sneak onto the blog along the way. Thanks for reading!

Questions or comments are always welcome, and early readers are too. Just ask!

Allenby Street - my first introduction to Middle-Eastern urban life.